Yellow House of Dreams
by thousand.stars
Summary: Dreams are funny things. They never quite end up the way you think they will. Or at least, the way you achieve your dreams is far from the way you imagined. H/Hr ** All HP belongs to JKR only**


Dreams are funny things.

They never quite end up the way you think they will. Or at least, the way you achieve your dreams is far from the way you imagined.

You see, he always knew what he wanted once it was all over. Once he was done saving the world and being the Boy-Who-Lived, Once he could simple be 'Just Harry.'

It was a dream cooked up in desperate times- in lonely times. Not the sort of dream a normal boy one would have - with fame, glory, glamour and gore.

He knew all too well of that nightmare.

No, his dreams were of a modest house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rolling green hills and clear blue skies. It was yellow too, the house. He doesn't know why he made it yellow when he looks back, but in that moment that was all he wanted. Sunshine yellow. Happy yellow.

Hopeful yellow, perhaps?

In this little yellow house he would be free. Free from everything that chained him down, weighed him down. No one would ever call him useless, stupid or worthless. No one would ever write that he was a liar a cheater, a fake. No one would look at him with haunted eyes or plead his name with such desperateness it broke his heart. No one would make a sound.

And it would be lovely. And he would be happy. And he would be safe.

So, when the war ended he took his first step towards the long awaited dream he never grew out of it because he always seemed to be in desperate circumstances- in lonely circumstances.

He bought the yellow house.

Yet , all of his problems didn't just vanish like he hoped they would. Dark memories of the dead still followed him and visions of the people he couldn't save periodically flashed before his eyes. All the screams and terrors and nightmares that still haunted- and he didn't understand why.

But then she moved in and started to do what she did best.

Fixing him.

She was there for him when he woke up screaming in the night and she lulled him back to sleep with her sweet lullabies and stayed with him until the first rays of sunlight hit the bed. She showed him paintings by Monet and Picasso. She introduced him to Bach and Mozart. She cooked him Indian, Thai and Chinese. They watched old muggle movies.

She made him see colour in his life again, she made his ears remember music and made his tongue forget the awful taste survival.

But it was more than just superficial beauty that she brought- she showed him that even they would never forget what happened, they could allow themselves to move on.

She brought him the joy that the house was missing. Even with the yellow walls (although they were quite awesome according to Teddy who frequently wore his hair the exact same color)

Because she understood.

She too had seen the effects of war and lived through those terrible times. She too understood the sacrifice that he gave, that _they _gave, that _she _gave. In fact, every time she looked at her arm she remembered... But she wasn't one to let her past control her future- and she wasn't one to let him do it either.

So, together, they moved on.

Together, they rediscovered how to live, not just stay alive.

Together they fell in love.

And when they did, something magical happened to him. The house came alive. It became filled with the noise he thought he never wanted. It became filled with the noise he never dreamed of hearing. It was the kind that you can always feel, but never really see.

It was the kind where every nook and cranny in the house became be filled with the echoes of laughter and tiny giggles whizzed around each room. The kind where whispers of love floated through the house like a passing breeze, softly touching everyone there. And in the darkest hours of the day, deep sighs would resound through the house - sighs filled with content exhaustion

His little yellow house became the safe haven he always imagined. Filled with scattered pages of books, leftover socks and the scent of fresh ink.

And he realised what was missing from his dream from so long ago. He was missing the mass of curly brown hair he now woke up to every morning. He was missing those quiet Sunday morning with her where they both silently drank their coffee. He was missing those chocolate brown eyes secretly gazing at him during the day and silently watching over him in the night. He was missing those evening walks under the starlight with the sound of crickets filling the empty spaces. He was missing her.

So many years later as he lies in bed with one arm wrapped around her waist he reminisces that dreams were funny things. They never end up the way you thought they would- or at least the way you achieved them is never the way you imagined.

But in the end they were true. His were true. She was true.

In fact, she helped him repaint the walls every summer.


End file.
